


Speak in Couplets

by Diz_Insomnia



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Prophetic Dreams, slight spoilers for Zen's route, technical first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 15:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diz_Insomnia/pseuds/Diz_Insomnia
Summary: Zen dreams about a girl who loves Shakespeare and maybe, he hopes, just maybe, him.





	Speak in Couplets

He sees sunlight through the glass, marked with dust and streaks from a cleaning rag. Weight presses under his arms; crutches, he realizes, but there’s a distinct lack-of pain. Could be the dream; he knows he’s dreaming. It could be that, whatever injury he’s caused _this_ time, apparently to his left leg, doesn’t hurt. Maybe he’s healed so swiftly that the doctor doesn’t believe him so, shit, he’s stuck in a cast. All of them feel possible. It’s happened before.

He’s at the chain grocery store not far from his apartment, stopped at the flower display facing an empty sidewalk. He catches his reflection, dressed in a loose shirt and old hoodie, even the crutches can’t take away how good he looks, but, no, his attention goes to the flowers before him. No, not the flowers but the slight fingers, feathering through the stems, skin so close to colorless that the contrast against the green leaves is stark. There’s humming, quiet, as the hand plucks the wildflowers, drawing together a bouquet of white in her right hand. It’s what he watches, her delicate hands twisting in the air, the erratic dance of someone distracted. Her fingers flick together, lingering over clusters of white mountain laurels. There’s a pause, her fingertips brushing over the silken petals with thoughtful tenderness. Her head turns toward him.

He’s never seen her before, but her smile quirks in one corner, conspiratorial, while golden eyes brighten with silent laughter.

“I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.”

She’s quoting Ophelia, he realizes, recalling the production of _Hamlet_ from years ago. So she knows him, then, whenever this dream takes place. Is she a new actress? No, probably not. There’s wavering in her words, her cadence uncertain; it’s self-doubt, natural and entirely sympathetic. But he also knows the next line and, with her hesitation, how can he not answer? He nudges her, gentle, before lowering his head and saying, just for her,

“Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, she turns to favor and to prettiness.”

Her cheeks burn with reddened delight. She tries containing her laughter, her fingers tightening around the little bouquet between her hands. She would fit Ophelia, her hair falling in wild waves past her elbows, her soft features suggesting an eternal innocence that he feels, unexpectedly, fiercely, protective of. She’s layers of warm wool and bright eyes, sugary sweetness in the air. She giggles freely; it’s a delight, how light she sounds.

“You know _Hamlet_?”

“Mm, was in a production as Laertes. Apparently I gave an inspiring performance. Something about utterly stealing the show, the Laertes the world needed but never dreamed of. All according to a critic who, also, is a Shakespeare scholar.”

He preens, just a little bit, but it doesn’t bother her. So, they’re…What, in this glimpse into the future? She peers up at him, thoughtful, before nodding.

“I can see that! You must’ve had so much fun with the role…I feel like Laertes would have been a perfect fit for you.”

“Oh, you think so?”

He knows his answer, but he wants hers. He isn’t disappointed. She nods, insistent, as she gestures with the bouquet, her eyes shining. It’s endearing, how she bounces on her heels with unabashed enthusiasm.

“ _Hamlet_ is all about the tragedy of thinking too much, I think; his role is pure broody introspection. So, Hamlet’s effectiveness intensifies if his foil, Laertes, is everything Hamlet isn’t. Like, like curling up in laundry fresh from the dryer on a cold day, that kind-of contrast.”

That comparison reminds him of Seven and, oh, _shit_ , if this is actually him cross-dressing _again_ he’s going to be—

Wait.

Seven’s shorter than him but not nearly this short, with the top of her head well below his shoulder. Forget about Seven ever waxing poetic about Shakespeare. She’s committed to expressing her point, free hand gesturing wildly for emphasis, insisting,

“A fiery and passionate Laertes, practically radiant, no, radiant! Radiance unquestioned! Radiant with the energy that Hamlet lacks, that heart, I-I can see you as that, and you must’ve done the role such justice, I can only imagine what you did with the burial scene—”

She catches herself, going a deeper shade of red. His hand finds her elbow without much thought; he doesn’t know her but he should do something, because it means so much, that she’s put such thought into her answer. Towards _him_. She believes in his acting abilities so much that, without seeing him in the role, she senses, understands, his handling of the character. 

Who _is_ she?

“S-Sorry, I got, ah, a bit carried away…”

“You can get carried away,” he reassures her with a chuckle, “especially when you’re right. About Laertes and, of course, my performance.”

He acts lighter than he feels, giving her a wink. _There._ Her smile returns, shy though definitely pleased, so preciously _cute_ , as her fingers pluck at the flower stems’ ends. She chances a glance up at him through her bangs, her cheeks luminescent. Oh _no_ , she practically _pouts_ as she sighs, 

“I wish I could’ve seen you.”

“Nothing says I couldn’t do more Shakespeare. Got any requests, babe?”

He half-expects _Romeo and Juliet_ ; something romantic, and that’s the only one he’s heard of. He doesn’t go out looking for Shakespeare productions. But, for her, it would be worthwhile to look further.

She fidgets with her white laurels, her eyes darting over the display as she searches for something; humming, her movement quick, she tucks a handful of red tea roses into her arrangement, then glances up at him.

“Well, _Twelfth Night_ is my favorite,” she admits; shit, he’s drawing blanks, especially when she tilts her head, her attention so completely on him that he feels as though he’s being gently studied by someone who takes him, all of him, to heart.

It’s refreshing and it leaves him feeling distinctly abandoned when her attention returns to the flowers.

“I think…No, definitely, you’d be wonderful as Duke Orsino! It could definitely be a fun role for you a-and, well, I-I’d definitely love to see you. A-As Orsino, I mean.”

Is this why he’s having this dream, so he knows what play she’s talking about when he meets her? _When_ is that anyway? God, he can’t wait to meet her.

She makes a little noise, catching his attention again, as she finds a line of crimson ribbon. She cuts a length of it on the dispenser’s edge and wraps it around the flower stems.

“There. I know it isn’t much,” she says, her free hand twisting with airy uncertainty before she looks over the flowers, “but, well, get well flowers. For you, Zen.”

And he wakes with a glimmer of her, holding the bouquet under her chin, the flowers a spiral of white and red. Her features have gone rosy but her smile, bright with an unasked question, that sticks as surely as her bright eyes, shining with hope and, maybe, affection. Whoever she is, she cares about him. _Will_ care about him. All of him. He hasn’t met her, he would’ve remembered, but here he is, alone in bed and asking…

_When?_


End file.
